Chapter 24: A Brief Interrogation

"Name."

"Ro-Roland..."

"Age."

"Fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen..."

*Bang!*

The man opposite him slammed his hand heavily against the table. A gold-capped fountain pen slid off a stack of paper bags, rolled to the other side of the desk, and was caught by a slender hand.

The woman rubbed her temples and spoke in a soothing tone. "He's just a child, Sean."

"He's a freak from the East District." The man named Sean had black hair similar to Roland’s, though it was swept around his head in a way that left his blindingly shiny scalp exposed. He was tall, with narrow, slit-like eyes and short, thick eyebrows. "A blind kid. Your mother must have been doing God-knows-what with a stray dog to give birth to something like you. Listen, boy, the Holy Father will never show you mercy—"

He started to spew more filth, but the woman beside him cut him off.

"Let me ask the questions, child." She picked up the pen and pulled the ledger from the man’s grasp. "You don't know your actual age, do you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Roland hunched his shoulders. He had a beautiful face and bright, shining eyes, though tear tracks still streaked his cheeks.

*The boy is terrified,* the woman thought, casting a sidelong glance at her colleague.

*‘Roland Collins, future performance artist.’*

*Shut up.*

Roland pursed his lips and recounted everything that happened during the night—what he had heard, what he had imagined...

The gist of it:

He guessed Mr. Mester must have fought a duel with that monster. Mr. Mester’s black trench coat had snapped in the wind, his limbs beneath it as powerful as a leopard’s—he had grappled with the beast in a bloody struggle. Both had struck each other, leaving wounds on one another's bodies.

Mr. Mester had protected him. And killed the enemy.

He was a hero. He died without regrets.

Under the woman’s gentle, probing guidance, Roland sketched out the events of the night.

"...You are a brave child," the woman said, looking somewhat saddened. "It’s a pity Mester didn't have time to explain where he kept his potion. Otherwise... I wouldn't have lost a teammate. This isn't your fault, Collins."

The male detective, however, was overcome with rage.

"To die for a freak like this—"

This world was full of monsters—the blind, the lame, the poor—all born without the grace of the All-Father.

Roland listened as he roared around the room. An unopened bottle of ink went flying and slammed into him. Then, he heard the man storm out and slam the door behind him.

*‘You are only unique, not a monster, Roland.’*

*Thank you, Miss Nina.*

Roland gripped his cane tighter.

The woman stood up to lock the door, sighed, and scribbled a few lines in the ledger. Suddenly, she asked, "Mester shouldn't have died like that, child."

A sudden silence fell.

"I knew him," the woman said. "He wasn't the type to sacrifice his life to protect someone like you."

She tapped the table, her gaze turning cold as she looked at Roland. "We found a shard of porcelain in the skull of the corpse... that is, the monster you described. Child, can you tell me whose it was?"

Roland lowered his head.

"...It was mine, ma'am." His lie exposed, Roland had no choice but to confess. "I lied, ma'am... I was just worried..."

"It’s alright. Tell me what really happened."

The room grew colder.

"It rushed at me. I didn't know, ma'am, I couldn't see—something pounced on me."

"That sharp porcelain shard?"

"It was Rick Richie. He was showing off, saying it was a magical fragment, from a demon or... I don't remember exactly." Roland looked up, his expression sincere. "I bought it for three pennies..."

Rick Richie...

The woman flipped through her records. She had indeed heard reports of an exotic item found in the East District yesterday.

It checked out.

*This kid... is he really that lucky?*

"I wanted to stab it with the shard... and then—I swear, ma'am, Mr. Mester used something to kill the monster right after. He was gasping for air, breathing so fast. Then he said a lot of things I didn't understand—when I felt my way along the wall to him..."

Roland’s voice broke into sobs: "He had already stopped breathing! Please, don't hurt me! Ma'am... I really don't know anything else..."

The woman studied him, deliberated for a moment, and then spoke: "Mester was a hero."

Roland blinked, eyes brimming with tears, and immediately nodded: "Yes, ma'am. He protected me, and that's why he perished with the monster..."

"Very good."

The woman drew a line in her ledger. "As for that shard..."

She trailed off, her gaze fixed on him.

In the silent room, an invisible pressure weighed upon the one being interrogated.

Roland, however, acted as if he felt nothing. He clenched his fist and struck the cold metal armrest hard. "It brings bad luck! If it weren't for it, I don't think I would have encountered the monster—ma'am, please, don't let it near me again. I beg you... I beg you to throw it far away..."

"Very good." The woman was satisfied and crossed out a detail in her ledger.

After a while, she set down her pen.

"You have no more issues, child." With her hands folded on the table, she said, "No one will give you trouble, but you must be kept under observation for thirty days. Staying at the station will suffice."

Thirty days?

"That's right. At least thirty days—oh, do you have any relatives?"

"My uncle..."

The woman waved her hand. "I don't care who your relatives are. Have them come, pay the bond, and sign a guarantee. If you have withheld the truth, he will also have to bear some..."

She seemed to have nothing left to say to Roland. She buried her head in a drawer, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one for herself.

A few minutes later, the male detective returned, slipping in through the crack in the door.

He seemed to have cooled off. He first bowed to the woman and made a request, then leaned in and whispered a few words—both of them glancing at Roland from time to time.

The woman, holding her cigarette, listened, and her expression turned peculiar.

"...I didn't know you were that survivor."

Roland was confused: "What?"

"The survivor of the Collins family, Roland Collins, right?" She blew out a cloud of white smoke, stood up, walked over to Roland, and used a key to unlock the restraints, pulling him up from the chair.

Roland flexed his ankles: "Ma'am?"

"If you ask me, I don't know if your luck is good or bad." She led Roland out of the interrogation room.

At the entrance, a tall woman was already waiting.

She stood there like an iceberg frozen for a thousand years, causing everyone passing by to steer clear with caution.

"Lady Enid."

"Thank you, Julie."

"You're too kind," the woman named Julie said, releasing Roland and teasing with her cigarette in hand, "This is the first time the Tribunal has 'taken the initiative' to deal with us..."

Enid raised an eyebrow, grabbed Roland, and turned to leave.

Julie stood with her arms crossed, smiling a farewell, while the man stood to one side, bowing respectfully.

The woman looked travel-worn.

Roland could smell the scent of earth on her.

She didn't say anything on the road, instead arranging for a newsboy to send word to Push Collins, then led Roland into a carriage.